Achilles to his Paris

It strikes me sometimes that I know nothing about him, just as much as he tells me unless I ask. I think he wants me to but instead I secretly collect fragments from the little things I find in his presence. When he leaves I put them together in my mind, adding the missing details from what I imagine would be true (or exciting).

I know he comes from old money, he knows about my Russian heritage but not that I faked my grandfather's name when he asked. It's our frail balance of terror, the secrets we keep from each other like nuclear arms.

I sometimes want to hurt him just to see what it does to him, to see what he could do to me if he needed to. It's so calm around here, a looming silence that penetrates the paper walls like arrows.